Donavan hadn’t gotten into this business to break hearts and crush dreams. It had just kinda turned out that way. When he’d gotten the call early this morning it felt like it was his own heart under the shadow of the boot.
If the universe had a shred of decency it would’ve been a cold, damp and dreary day. So of course it was under crystalline skies and a balmy mid-afternoon sun that Donavan arrived at the doorstep of the old Greymire Bookstore off 7th.
The stairs creaked as he climbed to what was once probably a green door. The plastering of the walls had chipped away to patches of the brickwork beneath. He could almost smell it. That intoxicating musk of old parchment.
Taking a minute to adjust his tie, Donavan resigned himself to delivering his dark news. After all, it wasn’t everyday you personally got to destroy your heroes legacy.
At least he’d get to enjoy the simple pleasures of an old bookshop.
Donavan knocked. A moment later the door whined open to the protest of its hinges. Instead of the pleasant scent of old books, his nostrils were invaded with the stench of marijuana. If the phrase ‘living in my mother's basement’ had a face, then it was that face that waited beyond the door.
“Can I help you?” The man said in a nasal, annoyed voice.
Donavan didn’t even respond at first. He just stared at the man, taking inventory of the greasy brown hair, acne, and other unfortunate aspects of his appearance. Honestly, he could’ve at least trimmed his beard, if you could really call it that. The worst part had to be the shirt he wore that in big block letters read ‘F.B.I’ and then under that in a smaller text read ‘federal boobie inspector.’
“Hello, anybody in there.” The man said snapping Donavan out his haze.
“Yes, sorry. Bad habit of mine” He said, clearing his throat. “I’m looking for Erwin Greymire, grandson to the late Robert Greymire. I’m from Pigeon Publishing; here to discuss his manuscript.”
“Oh shit.” he said, his mood doing a complete one eighty. “Yeah that's me, come on in,” he said stepping back to let Donavan in. “Just follow me to the back office and gimme a sec to finish up.”
Donavan did, albeit lagging a bit behind in the hopes of avoiding the pungent smell clinging to the man. Plus it gave him a moment to look around and take in the small bookstore.
It was one of those old fashioned type places that tried to cram a book in every possible nook. It had a cozy atmosphere. On a rainy afternoon, lounging in the antique armchair by the window would’ve been a slice of heaven. The only feature that really popped out was one wall completely devoid of any shelves or pictures. Instead five books were displayed prominently in a star formation, each one having their own little shelf and plaque.
Donavan didn’t need the plaques. He knew the titles by heart. He’d read each of them at least a dozen times.
The legendary star-crown series written by Robert L. Greymire. Not only were they the reason Pidgeon Publishing became a major firm, but they were the reason he’d wanted to get a job in the literary business in the first place. He couldn’t help but smile at them. He’d lost many nights of sleep staying up and reading about Zandar and his friends on their adventures. Then Donavan remembered what he was here to do and his smile dropped. Turning away, he ghosted his way to the back office.
As he stepped inside, he was greeted with a room that had more in common with a neglected dorm room than the office of a business.
“Let me just finish up this match and we can talk.” Erwin said sitting down in front of his computer.
Left with nothing else to do, Donavan took in his surroundings. Clothes were strewn about the floor and a box of day old, half eaten pizza rested on the desk. Several posters had been pinned to the wall in chaotic orientations that itched at Donovan's OCD. Each and every one of them featured an improbably proportioned anime girl in one type of provocative pose or another.
He’d even recognized one of the characters. A girl in a futuristic red bodysuit that clung tightly to her every curve.
“You like?” Erwin asked eyeing him out the corner of his eye.
“No… well yes. I just recognized her from a show I like, that's all.” Donavan said.
“Ah, a man of culture I see.” Erwin said spinning his chair around to face him. “You a Rei or an Asuka kinda guy?”
“Neither really. I’m more in it for the big robot fights and occasional philosophical quandaries.”
Erwin sniffed and spun around back to his game.
Donavan rolled his eyes. He hadn’t come here to wait in a corner while someone played a video game. This would be easier for everyone if he just got this over with.
“Mr. Greymire.” Donavan said in a clear crisp tone.
“Hold on.”
“Mr. Greymire I’m here to inform you...”
“And done!” Erwin said as the word victory popped up on the monitor. A smug smile on his face as he opened one of the desk drawers to pull out some papers.
“Now I know you guys usually do cover art in house, but I went ahead and got these bad boys commissioned. But I can’t choose between these two, what do you think?”
Erwin presented two pieces of artwork. One of them had a tall, athletic, brown haired young man who was pretty in that boy band kind of way. He was lounging on what looked to be a throne with three scantily clad women in his lap or clutching to his legs. The other had the same man facing forward gripping the hilt of a fancy black sword at his waste in a way that couldn’t have been anything other then phallic.
Donavan sighed.
“Mr. Greymire I am here to inform you that we will not be publishing your manuscript.”
Erwin's smile dropped. The two men stared at each other in precarious silence.
“Wait, What?” Erwin said finally.
“We’ve decided to go in a different direction.”
“The hell does that mean? What, you guys aren’t doing fantasy anymore?”
“No, we still are. Were just not doing…” Donavan wagged his hand searching for the right words. “Your particular brand of fantasy.”
“My brand? My brand!” Erwin started to raise his voice. “My brand is Greymire, and that name is probably the reason you even have this fucking job. My grandfather put you sorry losers on the map and now your just gonna kick me to the curb?”
Donavan sighed again. This was a relief actually, usually he didn’t like being the bad guy. But when it meant he got to put a self entitled brat into his place? Now that was a different matter entirely.
“Yes, your grandfather was an incredible writer. In fact, I count myself as one of his most avid fans.” Donavan said in an almost amused voice. “But you, you are not. It’s actually a shame.” Donavan said, voice lowering in mock sympathy. “You inherited his name but none of his talent.”
The two men glared at each other, neither of them wanting to be the first to falter. Erwin's jaw clenched. Donavan maintained a perfectly curated customer service smile.
Erwin blinked.
“Now that that’s over with.” Donavan said turning to the office door.
“Wait! You’re just gonna leave?” Erwin called from behind him. Donavan eyed him from over his shoulder
“Of course, Our business is concluded.”
Erwin was standing now, shoulders slumped and eyes cast downward. He looked more defeated than anything, like a puppy who knew it was in trouble and was resigned to its punishment.
“I’m sorry I yelled.” He said not looking up from the floor. “I know I’m not close to the writer he was but I want to get better.”
Each word out of his mouth made Donavans stomach sink a little.
“So before you go, do you think you could give me some notes?”
Donavan raised a brow.
“Why would you want notes from me?”
“You’re a publishing agent right? Your whole job is finding what works and what doesn’t. Who better to get notes from.”
Donavan glanced at the door only a few feet away. But as he looked back at the downcast man he couldn’t help but sympathize. Looking over at the shrine of his grandfather's work. Donavan could see that the shoes Erwin was trying to fill were big ones.
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
And who knows? Maybe one day Donavan would be able to sit down and get lost in the simple pleasure of a good Greymire fantasy book again.
“Fine. But I’ll keep it quick, and don’t expect me to hold back.”
Erwin looked up and nodded with a hopeful expression on his face.
“Put simply, your story is a trashy power fantasy with an overreliance on classic fantasy tropes and cliches. Not to mention that certain parts are borderline pornography.”
“Wow” Erwin said looking down again. “You really don’t hold back.”
“However.” Donavan said raising a cautionary hand. “None of those things are inherently bad for the story. It’s unlikely it’ll get published by any of the big companies, but there is definitely an audience for it and it doesn't mean you can’t tell a fun story with those elements. Your problem isn’t your premise or content, or even the fanservice. Your problem is the characters.”
Erwin started chewing on his thumbnail. “Damn old geezer was right.” he muttered under his breath.
“Sorry?” Donavan asked.
“Oh nothing, please continue.”
Donavan eyed Erwin but dropped it.
“First, you’re main character is generic as can be, but the real problem is that he's stagnant. He doesn't change or grow throughout the story. Part of the reason for that is you made him so good at everything that he never comes up against an obstacle he needs to grow to surpass.”
Erwin nodded studiously.
“Second, your supporting cast seems to be made up of an assembly of nonsensical bully archetypes put there just for the hero to beat down, and then supermodels whose only distinguishable character traits are that they want to sleep with the main character. Sex in it of itself isn’t a bad thing, some people like it, some don’t. It's your book so it's up to you. Just remember interesting characters with their own arcs and fan service aren’t mutually exclusive. In fact I’d argue the former increases the effectiveness of the latter. Even porn can pass the bechdel test.”
“What's that?” Erwin said perching a brow. Donavan could only roll his eyes.
“Look it up.” Donavan said waving his hand.
“The third is your villain, a character that is almost, if not just as important as your hero. He was weak; both literally and narratively. This goes back to your main character having no real obstacles. Your antagonist is supposed to be the ultimate challenge, the grand finale, bigger than life and badder than everything else that might try to stop him. Otherwise you wouldn’t need the hero to beat him. There’s a lot of smaller details to go into, but I suggest focusing on those.”
Erwin nodded his head again, then paused for a minute and cocked his head giving Donavan a curious look.
“You really know your stuff don’t you?”
“I like to think so.”
“But you know all the tropes and tricks, all the things stories are made of, right?”
“Well…” Donavan said hesitantly. “I know the mechanics, yes, but I wouldn't say that I'd be any good at writing myself. That takes a certain…” Donavan paused searching for the right word “Audacity..” he decided. “That I just don’t seem to have. So Instead I try to find people that do have it and help them turn it into something comprehensible. It's really out of selfishness more than anything. The more good stories out there, the more I can spend my time lost in them.”
A strange sort of grin grew on Erwin's face. The smile of someone who had a juicy secret that they wanted to share, but just not yet.
“You said you were a big fan of the old geezer right?”
“I did.” Donavan said eyeing Erwin suspiciously.
“I want to show you something.” He said perking up and jogging off down one of the aisles.
Donavan didn’t follow immediately, something seemed off. Erwin didn’t strike him as the type to take criticism gracefully yet he’d seemed to be rather placid about the whole thing. Maybe even a little excited. It was possible that on some level he already knew his story needed work and just needed someone to say it to his face. He’d met a lot of authors like that. They’d defend their work tooth and nail in the moment of criticism but an hour later end up agreeing with you. And as generic as Erwins story had been he’d still went and written it, an act worthy of respect in itself. It was more than he could do.
“You coming?” Erwin called from somewhere else in the bookstore.
He was zoning out and overthinking things again. Donavan shook his head and followed the sound of Erwins voice.
When he’d caught up to Erwin, it had been at the smallest little cranny at the back of the store. A place that you’d never find unless you went looking for it. A bookshelf that seemed slightly different than all the others, was filled with an odd collection of almanacs, encyclopedias, anthropology studies and even religious texts. The types of books few people would ever come purposely looking for unless they had to write a research paper or something.
The shelf itself was also more of a cabinet. It had a solid back and seemingly wasn’t connected to any walls, just pushed up against one. It was odd sure, but not interesting enough to warrant the grin on Erwin's face.
“What am I looking at?”
“Oh this?” Erwin said, glancing at the shelf. “This was my grandfathers worldbuilding shelf. He’d use these books personally to research things for his stories, but that’s not what's cool about it. Watch this.”
Erwin then started pulling a few seemingly random books off the shelf and reaching his hand into the slots they left behind. After a minute of fiddling with some unseen mechanism there was a click. He repeated this a few times.
“Wallah.” he said stepping back.
Donavan eyed him expectantly.
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Push on it.”
Looking back at the cabinet Donavan cautiously stepped forward and applied some pressure. As he did the whole shelf started to rotate as if he were pushing on one of those rotating doors. A small circular room came into view and just for a second Donavan found the breath stolen from his lungs.
It was like he walked into a little planetarium. The domed ceiling had a chart of stars, constellations, and warring deific figures painted on it similar to old cathedrals. A model solar system hung rotating from the center of the ceiling like a chandelier. Not his solar system. It was a model of the one from the Star Crown series. Geocentric with the moons and sun revolving around the planet on which the books adventures had all taken place. The orbiting sun was actually acting as the room's light source, a bright yellow bulb hazily drifting around the circumference of the room causing the shadows to extend and shrink in a hypnotizing waltz.
In the dead center of the room, a small but ornately carved desk of mahogany accompanied by a matching stool with a bright blue cushion took the center focus. It was presented more as an altar than a desk. Its surface was bare except for a single polished bronze contraption. A typewriter, Donavan realized. He hadn’t seen many before but this one looked incredibly extravagant compared to the ones he had seen. It was far to big and wide with a slight semi-circle curve. It had multiple different keyboards some with symbols he’d never seen before and at it's back where the paper was suppose to come out was instead a panel frame with a collection of strings pulled taut across it like a loom. The whole thing looked like a glorious mutation of a typewriter, organ piano, and weaving loom. all with a dash of steampunk flair. Somewhere off in some hazy distant corner of Donovan's mind a voice informed him he could pick up his jaw now.
“This is…” He whispered reverently
“Pretty dope right.” Erwin supplied. “This is where the magic happens. The old geezer called it his draft room.” Erwin put his hands on his hips and pumped out his chest. “Now I like to call it my God-box.”
Donavan raised a finger towards the desk “Is that really…”
“A typewriter? Yeah, an extra special one its been passed down through my family for generations. It's what he used to write up the entire Starblade series.”
Looking at it now, the thing took on new meaning. Robert Greymire had always sent in his rough draft manuscripts on a strange fabric-like paper. The company assumed he was just eccentric like that but now Donavan understood. It would be sacrilege to possess something like this and not use it.
Donavan took a step further into the room. The heels of his dress shoes echoed across the hardwood floor. Standing in the center he realized just how quiet it was. He couldn’t hear anything beyond the walls, not even the noise of the afternoon traffic. It must’ve been designed that way on purpose. Completely silencing the world outside to give clarity to the one inside.
Donavan couldn't help but grin like a mad man while he gawked. The walls were decorated with impressive canvas paintings depicting key characters and events from the story. Some were not quite the way he’d imagined them in his head. He’d pictured them more colorful and whimsical. But judging by the composition and the darker and deeper colors. The books events were of a much more somber, more profound nature in the mind of its creator.
Donavan was now standing in the mind of his favorite author, and in a strange sort of way, this was the closest he’d get to actually being in the world of the stories he so loved.
“Thank you for this.” He said softly.
“Don’t thank me yet.” Erwin said, a sly smile on his tone. “You ain’t seen shit.”
Erwin walked past him and sat down at the desk. He pointed at a place on the floor on the other side of the desk.
“Stand there.”
Donavan gave Erwin a suspicious glance, but after all the other stuff he’d experienced in the past twenty minutes the request really didn’t seem so odd. He stepped over to the designated point and faced the desk. From where he stood he could see Erwin's face through the slits between the strings of the loom like apparatus at the back of the machine.
“Check this out.” Erwin said as he started typing.
From the back Donovan could see what the purpose of the loom was. A swarm of little gears and pegs were actually weaving the strings together into fabric that was then pulled up where the letter stamps of the keys printed the words onto the fabric. Unlike a normal typewriter, where you had to constantly switch out the paper at the end of the page. This contraption actually weaved together paper as it was used, producing a long scroll like document. Looking down he realized there was a slit in the back of the desk that the newly printed fabric was fed into. It looked like Erwin hadn’t started typing something new, but was continuing on a long piece of fabric that he’d already started on.
“Where did your family find this thing?” Donavan asked.
His question was met by silence. Looking up Erwin was still typing but the tip-tap of the keys sounded strangely distant.
“Erwin?” he tried again, but now his own voice echoed as if he was shouting from the bottom of a well. Donavan took a step forward towards the desk. But even though he had moved his feet, he hadn’t seemed to actually cross any distance. He tried again. Still in the same spot. Then he tried running. He felt the momentum of his forward movement and the floor move beneath his feet yet he still hadn’t gotten any closer. It was as if he was trapped on some invisible treadmill. He shouted at Erwin but the man didn’t even look up.
Now his running seemed to have the exact opposite effect. Though he was running forward, he started to get farther away. As if the distance between them was being stretched out. Donavan tried pumping his legs faster but to no avail. He stopped trying and like looking through an already zoomed in camera that was now being zoomed out, his view of Erwin and the desk retreated rapidly. He was so far away now that the distance between them shouldn’t have been physically possible with the dimensions of the room. Yet the entryway behind him was the same distance it had been when he first walked in. Except now when he looked through the doorway he didn’t see the rest of the bookshop. He saw a pit of absolute darkness. It wasn’t like just staring into a room with the lights off. It was as if he was looking out into a void, an expanse so vast and unknown the mind struggled to comprehend it. He imagined this is what it must be like for a deep sea diver floating just at the precipice of the mariana trench.
Looking back Erwin was so far away now he could barely make him out. That's when his stomach lurched. It was that moment when you step into an elevator and it first starts its ascent or when the roller coaster reaches its zenith about to plunge. When your relationship with gravity takes a sudden turn and your body struggles to catch up in that moment of weightlessness.
His feet left the floor as the world fell on its side, gravity now washing him back through the doorway into the void instead of keeping him planted to what now seemed like a sheer cliff of polished wood flooring.
He screamed, but even the sound of his own voice was lost somewhere distant as he plunged deeper into the waiting maw of oblivion.
.